


A Cursed Race

by PreciousOrgel



Category: More than Meets the Eye - Fandom, Transformers IDW
Genre: M/M, looming character death, sadfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-13 22:05:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/829396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PreciousOrgel/pseuds/PreciousOrgel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during #17. Cyclonus takes a trip to the med-bay, and has some questions for Ratchet. It's too bad he can't spit them out, but Ratchet seems to know what's on Cyclonus' mind anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Cursed Race

**Author's Note:**

> I started this before #17 came out, so I was afraid that the new issue would contradict it. It turned out even better, though, so...good.

“Doctor.”

The voice jolted Ratchet out of his seat. Looking up from where he had been engrossed in a monitor, he saw Cyclonus hovering by the med-bay door. It was unsettling, the way he stood there.  The Warrior bot usually stood with an air of absolute control and purpose, but instead he almost looked uncomfortable, like he didn't know where to hold his servos. In the light of the hallway, the deep scratches on his faceplates painted a wounded and dangerous picture. It was unsettling - _he_ was unsettling - but Ratchet caught himself just in time and was able to answer civilly.

“Oh, Cyclonus. Didn’t see you come in. Did you need something?”

“Yes. About Tailgate’s Cybercrosis. I want you to check me for it.”

Caught offgaurd, Ratchet put down the chart he was holding and frowned. “What for? It’s not contagious, you know.”

“I’m aware, but I am even older than Tailgate. Could it not be a possibility?” Cyclonus stepped further into the room, making it clear he had no intention of taking no for an answer.

“I suppose so,” replied Ratchet tiredly, “Alright, come and sit on the bench.” As Cyclonus did as he was told, Ratchet brought out several cables from a nearby drawer. To kill the silence, he asked, “How is Tailgate handling things?”

Not having expected a reply, ratchet was startled when Cyclonus said, “He is upset that there is no cure for a disease that is billions of years old.” His voice was emotionless, but Ratchet caught the accusation nonetheless.

“I…Yes, I’m quite appalled myself,” admitted Ratchet. “I’m attempting to develop a cure of course, but as it stands, I can’t even stall it.” The medic saw Cyclonus’ fingers tighten around the edges of the bench and sighed inwardly. Unlike Chromedome, who wore his spark on his sleeve, Cyclonus felt the need to disguise his feelings. This wasn’t such an uncommon thing, but Cyclonus seemed utterly _incapable_ of handling emotions. Ratchet would have been surprised if Tailgate had any clue of the former decepticon’s feelings for him at all.

The monitor in front of him beeped. Ratchet took one look at it and started picking off the cords connecting Cyclonus to the machine. “Well, you’re fine. No need to worry at all.”

“Good.” Cyclonus muttered, and got up from the bench. He started his way towards the door, but lacked his usual stride and almost seemed to loiter. It was as if he hadn’t gotten what he came for, and Ratchet was certain he knew what it was.

“Cyclonus,” he said as gently as he could, “There’s nothing more I can do for him.” Amazing, that millennia of saying that phrase to a…’friend’ of the patient never got any easier. During the war, it had been rare to find an intimate relationship between bots. Everyone had been terrified of finding their Condux Enjura, only to lose them in the next battle. Before boarding the Lost Light, on Cybertron, Ratchet had begun to see couples in the street; it had given him hope. Hope that maybe the Transformers race was not doomed to a lifetime of loss and pain.

Now, life had betrayed Ratchet once more. It seemed that loss and pain were now attaching themselves to the budding relationship between one of the most hope-inspiring bots he’d ever had the pleasure of knowing, and an ex-con who, right now, needed hope more than anybody.

Returning to the situation at hand, Ratchet met Cyclonus’ icy stare with his own stern optics. When the jet’s lips moved, Ratchet had to tune his audio receptors to catch his protest. “I didn’t ask.”

Ratchet was ready for this one. “Then, will you tell me what happened to your face?”

The stare fixed on Ratchet turned fierce and the old medic tensed instantly – stupid of him to incense a ‘con already in turmoil. Should have kept his mouth shut.

But if Ratchet was expecting an attack, he was proved mistaken. Cyclonus shifted his gaze away and stared the monitor that had just a few joors ago announced Tailgate’s looming fate.

“Thank you for your help, Doctor.” With that, Cyclonus disappeared around the door before Ratchet could reply.

The old medic sighed and turned back to his monitor interface, pausing to glance at the hands that had once belonged to Pharma. Sometimes it felt like the Transformers race was cursed; destined to do nothing but suffer one disaster after another.

Sometimes, Ratchet dearly wished they’d never left Cybertron. But then, he got the strangest feeling that those they'd left behind weren't faring any better.


End file.
